


The Spirit of Exploration

by Lt_Zoe_Jebkanto



Series: The Bonds Between Us [15]
Category: Star Trek Enterprise
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:06:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lt_Zoe_Jebkanto/pseuds/Lt_Zoe_Jebkanto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fifty years ago, her elder self had told T'Pol she would never fully recover her emotional control.  But what was it that gave her strength, sureness and equilibrium... even when she no longer had connection with her bond-mate?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spirit of Exploration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Asso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asso/gifts).



> This was not the most comfortable story to write, but my thanks anyway to Adm. OhBoy! Archer for planting the seed during an (non-breathless) evening walk.

The Spirit of Exploration

Autumn, 2205  
Vulcan

Her older self had been right. 

T’Pol never had completely recovered from her Trellium-D addiction. 

But even after more than fifty years since they had spoken together in the Delphic Expanse, she’d never been sure what emotion colored the tone of that announcement. Was it regret that mingled with the compassion she’d recognized in the quiet words? 

During the rare moments when she gave the memory serious consideration, she knew she had seen something more in the wrinkled, candle-lit face that bore the marks of what might have become her future. Something resolute, almost fierce. 

Though it may have provided an opportunity to gain personal insight from a unique perspective, solving that small mystery had not been a priority. 

At least, not until today.

Through study and disciplined meditation, she had achieved sufficient inner balance that issues surrounding her damaged emotional control had seldom troubled her in the last several decades. 

But sitting in this quiet room with the sharp, bitter smell of asepsis inducing chemical agents prickling her nose at every inhalation, she wanted to shout at the young science officer she was back then. What misguided logic had motivated her to inject herself with a substance known harmful to Vulcans and believe she could circumvent the neuro-toxic effects that now left every fiber of her being so raw and vulnerable? 

At one hundred and sixteen, it would be easy to dismiss her actions as the impulse of youth. Perhaps she would even concede that without those overwhelming surges of conflicting emotions, she would not have made an in-depth study of the Kir-Shara, which had been one of the most intellectually stimulating activities of her life. The writing of Surak had also served to broaden her thinking and nourish her emotional balance. 

As had the longstanding bond she had shared with Trip.

Today, however, she was having difficulty finding her elder self’s equilibrium.

Despite her pain and disorientation, she could not regret how the loosened rein on her emotions allowed her relationship with Trip to grow and deepen over the years. It had granted her an appreciation of the inexplicable subtleties of touching hands, exchanged glances and the sweet, wordless peace after love-making, wrapped tight within each other’s arms as their hearts beat together in a conversation all their own. 

The elder self would have known those things and confronted the same inevitability.

T’Pol had believed herself prepared. She had always known her Vulcan life expectancy was likely to exceed Trip’s Human one by a hundred Terran years. But how had the inevitable crept up unrecognized? 

Her hand tightened around his, held firm even when there was no returning pressure. 

Neither of them registered any significance when the echoes of old injuries that had slept quiet in Trip’s bones for years began to wake up and announce themselves.

“Damn, my leg’s singin’ Ave Maria today,” he’d said as he limped into the kitchen and straight for the stasis-box one bright morning two months ago. “Must’ve quirked it, workin’ in the garden last night. Do ya remember when I broke it down in the Algieba mines collecting mineral fuels with Cap’n Archer?” He grinned over his shoulder as he pulled out a small golden melon and cut it into two pieces. His eyes lit with fondness at the recollection, a quick mental embrace that warmed the bond between them. “Seems to me that was the first time you and I wrapped our minds around each other’s.”

Over the next weeks, the limp came and went, its presence more an annoyance than a worry. “You know,” he said. “My grandpa Cyrus used to tell Lizzie an’ me he could predict changes in the weather by the aching in his fingers.” 

He had no pain in his hands, but twinges began in the shoulder he dislocated on the eve of the Romulan war, followed by aching in ribs he had cracked falling off his parents’ roof as a child, then in a knee he’d wrenched in a hoops game with the captain… She sensed his annoyance giving way to mild perplexity, knew in her own bones the vague restlessness of his discomfort and its resultant drag of mild fatigue, but like the limp, it came and went.

Was it when she found the holo of his grandfather with him and his parents taken at Starfleet graduation, that she realized how much of the sunny gold in his hair had been exchanged for silver? 

Each day after that held a lengthening list of questions. When had the sure movements of his clever hands begun to be cautious, even clumsy? When did the heaviness of his breathing weave itself into their conversation during evening walks? When had she slowed her steps to match his? Offered him a supporting arm? Notice he had begun leaning on it? A month ago? Perhaps, but little more than that.

“I am concerned, Husband,” she said one night three weeks ago as they sat sipping fragrant cups of mint and chamomile tea. “About the increasing symptoms you have displayed recently. I believe you should consider consulting a Healer.”

Three weeks? T’Pol shifted her chair closer to the bed and tightened her grip on his hand. The touch of his Human skin had always held that slight, refreshing hint of coolness against the Vulcan heat of her own, but there was nothing familiar or pleasurable in the chill of it now. 

Was it only three weeks ago their lives together had still seemed almost normal?

“The aching’s only part of the birthday present ya get with the big numbers,” he said, drawing her close, though beneath the words came a sudden rush of relief. So, it hadn’t only been his frustrated perceptions! She also had recognized that something was different! “But,” he continued. “Just in case there’s a problem, in the morning, I’ll talk to someone at the clinic.”

The big numbers. But were his numbers big in Human terms? It hardly seemed so. He was decades younger that she. On Enterprise they had been at a comparable level of maturity. While their children had grown and left home to pursue their dreams, until recently it seemed she and Trip could go on as they had for an indefinite time to come… 

“He has,” the Healer said as they waited for Trip to finish dressing after the examination. “Reached a considerable age for one of his species,”

“While that is true,” she said, her voice steady and composed, though she could feel an apprehensive chill rippling down her arms until her fingers were almost as cold as the heavy hand now circled within her grasp. “I believe that another fifteen to twenty years would not be considered uncommon.” 

“Nor would it be.” The Healer consulted his handheld data reader for several seconds. “Were it not that he is affected by Kolarin’s calciphagic haemopenia.”

He went on, though it was hard to hear him through the racing thunder of her heart, drumming with a panicked beat she had not experienced since her Trellium withdrawal. Unfortunately, the sound of it could not drown out the reality of the Healer’s words. 

Her husband’s condition was rapidly degenerative, he said. By the time outward signs became manifest, the metabolic changes were already far advanced as bone mass disintegrated, re-depositing calcium and other mineral stores into the brain and vital organs. With increasing swiftness, the patient would-

Patient? This was no patient, but Trip. Her Trip. Her bond-mate, heart of her heart, mind in her mind, Trip, who would-

-begin to- experience-

“I am familiar with the syndrome,” she interrupted, unwilling to hear the Healer paint pictures of Trip struggling to walk, to lift a spoon to feed himself, to sit up, to breathe… Her tone was abrupt, though she strove to keep a note of composure in her tone, despite the cold, dark horror looming up inside her. Growing. Spreading with the thunderous racing of her heartbeats. Far too large, she realized, to be hers alone. 

She pulled a slow, determined breath. Made her words come with deliberate slowness. If… she could hear… a core of steadiness… in her voice, she could believe it was within her capacity to maintain it. For herself. For her bond-mate. “Many who served in the Coalition Fleet during the Romulan war have contracted it. Tremendous resources have been directed toward finding an answer…”

“Correct,” the Healer said with what seemed an almost un-Vulcan-like relief. “Because of their higher incidence rates, most of that research has been carried out on Andoria. In theory, the drug regimens they have devised show great promise. They can’t rule out the possibility of risk, but believe it reasonable enough that they are planning to begin clinical trials that will include not only their own people but Tellarites, Vulcans and Humans…”

“Clinical trials?” The voice from the doorway to the adjoining room had lost much of its vibrant ring, but none of its command authority. She was not surprised when she turned to see Trip standing there. 

What was surprising was the swiftness with which the horror within her had been contained, the fear not eliminated, but set within clear borders as an excited stream of images flooded to her through the bond, quicker, clearer than speech could render them.

Clinical trials. Damn! If I’ve gotta deal with this… this… cyto-whatever he said, then at least those trials could make it count for something! Since when did anybody in Starfleet back down from takin’ a risk if they thought it could make a difference? It'd be almost like explorin’ again! Checkin’ out possibilities, even if they’re cellular, not galactic! Hey, if they’re lookin’ for a volunteer Human, then they got me…!

It was so familiar. T’Pol had experienced that enthusiastic tumble of images from Trip before, though the calmer, quieter rhythm of their lives had gentled its flow in recent years. It reminded her of their days together, back on Enterprise. Despite the lessened force of his voice, Trip’s mind had certainly lost none of its old vibrant ring. The spirit of the explorer was still there within him, strong and sure as it had been fifty years ago.

The Healer was only just looking up from his readings to where Trip stood, steadying himself with a hand on the doorframe. “Yes. They are scheduled to begin recruiting test subjects in approximately a year.”

Trip’s stream of enthusiasm crashed up against a wall of uncertainty. After a brief silence when T’Pol understood he was gathering his mental feet under him, scanning the realities of the situation, he spoke with the same resolute tone she had used a moment ago. She’d heard that one on Enterprise, too. “Just answer me one question.” Said Trip. “Do I have that year?”

The Healer’s earlier relief was gone. “Based on the progression of your symptoms and my previous experience with Kolarin’s patients, my estimates suggest six to eight…” 

“Months?” asked T’Pol.

“Six to eight weeks,” said the Healer.

That was three weeks ago. Only three.

And she realized she hadn’t been prepared for this at all.

There had been so many things to do. Contact their friends from Enterprise. Summon the children home for a bittersweet reunion over Trip’s famous (“that’s infamous” said Admiral Archer) vegetarian barbecue. Then, two weeks ago, there was a three-night stay in ShiKahr for just the two of them to organize legal affairs with their solicitor and to  
take in a sweet night of music under the light of T’Kuht. They sat close together as they listened, uncaring what others might say about the open display of affection demonstrated by their intertwined fingers. There were options to weigh, plans and arrangements to make, documents to sign, evenings in the garden back home, talking on and on, more than once until the Vulcan sun spread its light across the orange skies of morning. Even as it grew increasingly faint and breathless, it seemed she could not hear enough of his much-loved voice. 

Ironic, she thought, that they’d called all that busyness that they had surrounded themselves with “making preparations”. 

Now there was nothing left to do, but listen to the soft chiming of the monitor as its rhythm slowed, slowed, slowed. To watch the readings of metabolic activity sink lower, to cradle the cooling hand and wish for one more look from bright blue eyes, the sound of one more word or for one more exchange along the channels of their link. 

The steady awareness of her bond-mate, even when they weren’t actively communicating, or their careers had them separated by kilometers or light-years, had been a part of her for so long, its slow blurring these last hours had created a different loss of internal balance than any she had envisioned.

“It’ll be all right,” Trip’s eyes had been half closed, but still very blue against the white of the pillow and the pallor of his skin. His hand had sought hers, fallen short. Careful not to disturb the tube sending drugs into a wrist vein and the monitor feed beside it, she had gathered up his hand and held it as he continued. “If I’m not… in your head… ya go an’ look… in your heart. I’m not… so easy… to get rid of .”

Right now all she knew was how that heart ached.

The padding of soft-soled shoes sounded from behind her. Quick and decisive, they came closer. There was the quiet silken swish of a curtain before the footsteps paused. The prickle of a gaze traveled across her shoulder as it reached toward the monitor.

“It appears,” It was the same Healer who had come in to adjust Trip’s drugs an hour ago. “All metabolic activity has ceased. It is time for you to leave now.”

“I understand,” said T’Pol, but made no effort to rise or release her bond-mate’s heavy, cold hand. Instead, she gazed for several seconds more at his face. What was he experiencing now? What could he be seeing with those blue eyes behind their closed lids? Would the spirit of the explorer that had been his since the first day she met him lead him on adventures of his own until they met again? 

She didn’t know. The bond between them had blurred to numbness.

“You never will completely recover…”

The voice of experience was what her elder self had been. She too must have known the yearning for one more touch, one more ringing laugh, the ache of ongoing silence in the night that T’Pol would face in the days to come… 

But still… Those wise old eyes had been so steady and sure. So strong, despite her own damaged emotional control. That gaze had been full of fierce resolution. And…

At last, T’Pol realized, she could name that emotion that rang in the age-cracked voice and helped her to capture some sense of equilibrium even without the counterbalance of her bond-mate. Hope. For the elder self, that hope was directed toward the future, making a difference in the search for a way to save Earth. Because it was the mission that brought Enterprise to the Expanse. Because life was precious. Because it was the home-world of her beloved.

Perhaps, that damaged control had allowed her to experience that hope more deeply than she would have done without it. To hold fast to her resolve until the time when she met and counseled a self that was yet to be. 

While hope was an emotion not always grounded in logic, when balanced with it, it could be one that served to strengthen purpose and resolve until it burned pure and determined, as it had done for the elder self. 

As it could for her.

She would not focus on the lonely quiet of the house she would return to or the strange blurred place at the back of her mind where Trip had spoken to her in silence for half a Terran century. She would… attempt… to look toward the future and the difference she could make there as her elder self had done. Look toward the hopes that she knew would be waiting for her there. Already something had steadied inside her as she gazed past the monitors at her beloved’s peaceful face. Trip had been right. The panicked thunder of her racing heart had faded. It would be all right.

She would contact the Science Council. Determine what assistance she could offer to help with speeding the cure for Kolarin’s Syndrome. Perhaps travel to Andoria…

The Healer’s robe brushed T’Pol’s shoulder as, leaning forward, she made a closer check on one of the monitor readouts. Checked again.

… and when the drug regimens were finalized…

The Healer made a minor adjustment, then turned her direct gaze on T’Pol. “The process is complete.”

…they would begin their next adventure together, with all the risk and possibilities that formed the spirit of any journey of exploration…

The Healer’s touch was brief and gentle on her shoulder. “I really must insist you leave now. We are about to move your husband into the cryogenic chamber.”


End file.
